


If I Said I Loved Your Body, Would You Let Me Examine It

by forsciencejohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsciencejohn/pseuds/forsciencejohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Johnlock Challenge Grab Bag Challenge on Tumblr! I got dickiebirdery, and his line was "You seriously cannot expect me to agree to that." Hope you enjoy! =)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Said I Loved Your Body, Would You Let Me Examine It

Since moving into 221B Baker Street, John had had to completely rewrite his personal definition of “normality.” Living with Sherlock meant that you were just as likely to come home to a jar of ears in the fridge as you were to spend half the day following a truckload of geese around London in pursuit of a precious gem.  So John really shouldn't have been shocked by what Sherlock requested of him one Saturday afternoon as they sat in their living room at Baker Street, John reading in his armchair and Sherlock in his usual thinking pose on the sofa. Though to be fair, it would have stretched pretty much anyone’s definition of normality, and he _had_ been in the middle of an indulgent drink of his tea as Sherlock spoke. 

"John, I need to examine you naked."

John sputtered, hot liquid spilling on his shirtfront and burning his fingers.

"What?

"Actually, while having you naked would be preferable, I assume that would make you uncomfortable, so you may wear pants if you wish. I believe you have a pair of red y-fronts that would suffice."

"Hold on Sherlock, what the hell?  Why?  I mean— _why_?"

"Eloquent, John, as always. Because they are the smallest and therefore least intrusive pants you have, and would serve my purposes better than the others.

"No, I mean why do you need to— _examine_ me?”

With dramatic sigh, Sherlock sat up and affixed John with an impatient glare. "Your time as an army doctor has no doubt given you wounds and scars unique to those in the military—cuts from shards of shrapnel, knife wounds, and of course the scarring on your shoulder from where you were shot.  Knowing what these types of scars look like could be useful in future cases.  Molly never gets bodies of military personnel at St. Bart’s, and Mycroft won’t allow me access to one.  So, I turn to the resource most readily available: you.  Not to mention the fact that it’s been thirty-two hours since our last case, and everything is so _boring_.”  He lay back down on the sofa, returning to his previous position.  “Do hurry.  Remember, the red y-fronts.”

John merely sat in his armchair and stared at his mad flatmate.  When Sherlock realized John hadn’t moved, he turned his head and glared.  “Well?  Didn’t you hear me?”

“Sherlock,” John said in a low, even voice, “you seriously cannot expect me to agree to that.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?  Well for starters, it’s a pretty extreme invasion of privacy, even for you.”

“You’ve never cared about privacy before.”

“I’ve always cared about privacy, but usually you invade it without asking first, like when you apparently decided to search through my pants drawer.  But this time, since you _are_ asking, I’m going to say no.”  John calmly turned around and returned his focus to his book.  He heard Sherlock huff angrily and shift on the couch.

John turned slightly to look at his friend, who was curled into a petulant little ball on the sofa, facing the wall.  John considered Sherlock’s request.  In truth, he really wasn’t all that concerned about his privacy—he pretty much gave up on the notion after Sherlock recited his life story with almost unerring accuracy that first day at St. Bart’s.  Still, there was one rather large secret that John would much rather prefer Sherlock never discovered.  Subjecting himself to a complete, and no doubt thorough, full-body examination would most definitely reveal the completely inappropriate attraction he felt towards his asexual best friend.  John was sure Sherlock wouldn’t be bothered by it—he would probably just brush it off with some comment about how sex was a waste of thought and energy, driving away rationality and turning people into animals.  John was absolutely bloody positive, however, that he himself would _not_ be able to brush it off so easily, and he would much rather not have to navigate those awkward waters.  He shook the thought from his mind, giving up on reading and moving instead to the kitchen with his mug.

“You’re going to eat something tonight,” he called over his shoulder.  Sherlock responded with a sound that was almost like a growl, and Baker Street returned to normalcy.

Luckily, Lestrade called the next day with a case—some minor celebrity’s wife had gone missing the morning after their wedding, and the man had requested Sherlock’s skills specifically.  The case proved to be interesting enough after it was revealed that the bride had only showed signs of misgivings halfway through the reception, after the ceremony had already occurred, and Sherlock threw himself into it with vigor.  John breathed an internal sigh of relief, assuming that Sherlock’s enthusiasm meant that he no longer cared about the request he’d made the night before.  But Sherlock, in his usual fashion, once again proved that John should never assume anything, especially when it came to the man himself.

“I would allow you to wear boxer briefs, if you’d prefer,” Sherlock said to him without preamble, turning abruptly from the elaborate wardrobe he’d been inspecting in the client’s bedroom.  The half of the forensic team that had heard paused in their collection of evidence to stare, and Lestrade was looking between them with a confused expression.  Ignoring the other people in the room and (unsuccessfully) willing his face not to turn beet red, John fixed Sherlock with the sternest glare he could manage.

“No, Sherlock.”  Sherlock huffed and returned to his inspection, frowning.  Lestrade gave John a questioning eyebrow as if to say, _Do I even want to know?_ Johnshook his head minutely. _Definitely not, Lestrade.  Definitely not._

Sherlock continued his campaign over the next few days.  He would suddenly turn to John, without regard for who or what was around them, and say things like “We could do it in the morgue, if a more clinical atmosphere would be more comfortable for you” or “If you’re self-conscious about your loss of muscle mass, don’t be, I wish to focus mostly on your skin, and besides you’re quite fit for a man of your age.”  John always managed to keep his composure, refusing the madman and moving on as quickly as possible.  The only exception to this was when John practically yelled at him in the middle of Scotland Yard after he had offered to focus only on his upper body. 

“Well what good is having a partner if he won’t even help me when I need him?!”  Sherlock said angrily, stepping into John’s personal space.

John, at his wit’s end, shot back, “I’m your friend, Sherlock, not some body for you to use as you please!”  Sherlock threw his arms up in exasperation and stomped off to places unknown, leaving John standing alone in the middle of a room of shocked Scotland Yarders.  He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to get himself under control.  Anderson sauntered over to where he was standing with an insufferable smirk.

“Trouble in paradise with the Freak?”  He sneered.  John weighed his chances of getting out of a police station after punching an employee and, deciding that they were far too slim, settled instead on fixing Anderson with the most murderous look he could muster.  It did the trick, and Anderson slowly edged away with a fearful expression.  John sighed, took another deep breath, and went off to find Sherlock.

Later that day, they found the celebrity’s wife in a cottage in the Welsh countryside hiding from her husband with her American lover (a dull ending, according to Sherlock, to a case that had started out so promising).  After filling out the necessary paperwork and making a quick trip to Angelo’s, John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street for what John hoped would be a relaxing evening.  His hopes were dashed by the reappearance of Sherlock’s boredom—apparently the case hadn’t been interesting enough to stave it off for more then a few hours.  He was back on the sofa, curled up, and John could practically feel his misery across the room in his armchair.  It was almost exactly like that Saturday afternoon, except that Sherlock was, if it was possible, in an even worse mood.  John felt a pang of pity for his friend.  He knew how Sherlock’s mind worked, knew that boredom was much more extreme for Sherlock than it was for other people, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilt at the state the man was in.  He reconsidered Sherlock’s earlier proposal.  John _did_ have a lot of self-control, and might be able to manage to get through the whole inspection without… revealing anything.  And even if he did become aroused, he could probably come up with some excuse for it, natural biological reactions or something.  John sighed as his resolve slipped away—he should have known better than to try and refuse Sherlock anything.  He was trying to come up with a way to breach the subject when Sherlock snapped at him.

“I can hear you thinking from across the room.  It’s distracting.”  John waited a beat before responding.

“Funny, since I was actually _thinking_ about letting you examine me.”

Sherlock whipped around and looked at John hopefully.  “Really?”

“Yes, really.  But first, I want to set some ground rules.”  John braced himself for Sherlock’s protest, but it never came.  John continued.  “First, _I_ am in control of this.  If I tell you to stop, at any point, you _have_ to stop, no questions asked.  Second, try to refrain from voicing your deductions.  If you have questions, fine, but you can’t just sit there picking apart my military career.  I was there, I don’t need you to recite it.  And… I guess that’s it.  Alright?”

Sherlock looked at him silently before speaking in a low voice.  “Will you wear the y-fronts?”

John considered for a moment.  If he got hard, there was no pair of pants that could hide it, so he might as well make this experiment as useful to Sherlock as possible.  “Yes.”

“Alright then.  I accept.”

“Good.  Then I’ll just um… right.”  John rose from his chair and walked up the stairs to his room.  He changed into the red pants quickly, before he could talk himself out of his decision, and hurried back down to the living room.  He paused at the bottom of the stairs, taking a deep breath, before steeling himself and stepping into the doorway.  Sherlock was just walking out of the kitchen, his magnifier in his hand.  John stood where he was, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock cleared his throat.  “You should probably lay down on the sofa.  It will make everything much easier to see.”

“Right.”  John walked over to the sofa and stretched himself out, tucking the Union Jack pillow under his head and folding his hands on his stomach.

“Hands supine, please.”  John complied, pleasantly surprised at Sherlock’s manners.  Sherlock paused for a moment, eyes moving quickly over John’s body, before kneeling and taking John’s right hand in his.

The “examination” wasn’t nearly as awkward as John had expected it to be.  Sherlock’s fingers moved gently over his skin, handling his digits and limbs with the same care afforded to crime scenes.  Sherlock moved his way slowly up John’s arm and over his right pectoral, sweeping his fingers over small nicks and murmuring occasionally.  John couldn’t help but stare at his face, observing the observer just as closely—the minute movement of his eyes and lips, the way his hair curled perfectly over his forehead without being too long.  John was drawn out of his reverie when Sherlock suddenly stood up. 

“I need to examine your left shoulder more closely.  May I…?”  Sherlock gestured vaguely to the couch.  John was unsure of what exactly he was asking to do, but nodded anyway.  Sherlock braced his hands lightly on John’s shoulders and straddled his hips.  _Ah_.  John could feel his face flushing slightly, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his breathing under control.  Thankfully, when Sherlock bent over to bring the magnifying glass to John’s shoulder, there were a couple inches of space between their bodies.  _Small mercies_ , John thought as Sherlock peered at the violent scar.  The longer Sherlock focused on it, however, the more John began to think he wasn’t so lucky after all.  Sherlock’s face was so close to his shoulder that he could feel the man’s rhythmic breath on his skin.  As Sherlock shifted minutely above him, changing the angle from which he could look at the scar, John couldn’t stop the onslaught of images his mind provided—leaning forward slightly to press their lips together, carding his fingers through dark curls, untucking that ridiculously tight purple shirt to feel the hot skin at the small of Sherlock’s back, arching up to press their bodies together—

“Oh!”  Sherlock’s surprise abruptly tore him from his fantasy.  With a jolt of panic, he realized that Sherlock was looking down between their bodies, right at John’s crotch, where the evidence of his arousal was beginning to show.  Sherlock tilted his head back up, his wide, grey eyes piercing John’s and his mouth open slightly.  John swallowed audibly, trying to formulate an excuse. 

“It’s just—I mean I don’t—I’m sorry,” He said miserably, giving up on lying.  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean… We can delete this, if you want.  I mean, you can, and I can… try to.”  He gave Sherlock a look that he hoped was apologetic.

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, unmoving.  Then his mouth curled into the most wicked grin John had ever seen.

“Oh John,” he said in a breath that was almost a whisper, “you’re such an idiot.”

Before John could even think about reacting, Sherlock surged forward and captured John’s mouth with his, pressing his body down.  After taking half a second to get over his shock, John reached around to grab the back of Sherlock’s shirt and pressed back.  With a muffled sound of approval, Sherlock rolled his hips, grinding his own clothed prick against John’s.  John tore his mouth away with a loud groan, and Sherlock moved his attentions to John’s neck as he continued to thrust lightly.

“I thought—you didn’t—” John breathed, struggling to stay coherent while Sherlock sucked on his pulse point.

“I do,” Sherlock murmured against his neck, sounding equally out of breath, “But I thought _you_ didn’t—”

“I do, I do, _please_ —”

Sherlock cut him off with a loud moan and a particularly forceful thrust, bringing his mouth back to John’s.  John kissed Sherlock greedily, running his hands all over silk fabric while alternating between sucking the other man’s tongue into his mouth and biting Sherlock’s plump lower lip.  Sherlock pulled back to bite on John’s collarbone _hard_ , and the dizzying mix of pain and pleasure sent a surge of arousal straight to his cock.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, tearing his hands from Sherlock’s back to scramble instead at his belt buckle.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock gasped, propping himself up on one arm.  John stopped in his ministrations on Sherlock’s trousers when he felt long, thin fingers wrapping around his prick.  Sherlock recaptured his mouth, swallowing his groan.  John clumsily undid Sherlock’s button and zip while Sherlock worked him slowly.  He pushed and pulled at pants and trousers just enough to free Sherlock’s cock, then pressed his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back, guiding him down.  Sherlock took the hint, releasing John momentarily to lick his palm before wrapping his hand around both of their pricks.  They began to thrust against each other, falling into a frantic, but steady, rhythm.

John tangled his fingers in dark curls and pressed up to kiss Sherlock, who kissed back hungrily.  John couldn’t keep his hands still, with this beautiful body at his mercy.  He pushed Sherlock’s shirt up to his chest and groaned with pleasure at the feel of sweat-slicked skin against skin, adding to the delicious friction. His hands roamed all over Sherlock’s torso, skimming ribs and skirting across nipples.  When John reached down and grabbed Sherlock’s ass, with a punishing grip he hoped would bruise, Sherlock began to thrust harder and faster.  John groaned as his balls clenched.

“Fuck Sherlock, I’m—I’m close—”

“Yes, John, _yes_ ,” Sherlock moaned, burying his face in John’s shoulder and thrusting erratically.  John clutched at Sherlock’s hair so hard it must have hurt, but Sherlock continued thrust faster and faster until he halted and stilled, biting John’s shoulder as he came.  Sherlock’s cock twitching against his was enough to send John over the edge almost immediately, and John dragged Sherlock into a messy kiss as his orgasm surged through his body.  When it was over Sherlock collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily.  John tucked his chin to look at their debauched state.

“We seem to have made a bit of a mess,” he said softly, smiling and pressing a kiss to the mop of curls resting on his chest.

Sherlock’s soft laughter vibrated throughout his whole body.  “Yes, it appears so,” he murmured.  They lay in comfortable silence for a few moments before John spoke again.

“Was this your plan all along?” He asked teasingly, lightly dragging his fingertips over Sherlock’s back.  “To seduce me?”

Sherlock shifted so that his arms were folded on John’s chest, chin resting on his hands.  “Actually, no.  I really was planning on just examining you.  I did… imagine what it would be like, if it happened.  But I didn’t expect anything.”

John laughed quietly.  The great Sherlock Holmes, fantasizing about him.  How had he gotten so lucky?

“Well then,” he said with mock seriousness, “I guess that means _this_ examination’s a write-off.  We’ll just have to repeat it again tomorrow.”  Sherlock grinned and leaned forward, brushing his lips against John’s. 

“Oh John.  You know I’m an impatient man.”


End file.
